Shaking her head, Lauralee walked to the bathroom and checked the shower stall for cleanliness. It would do, so she strode back into the bedroom, unbuttoning her blouse. Balancing primly upon the edge of a chair, she took off her shoes and noticed the time on her wristwatch. Time for the late news, she thought, and turned on the television set, then slid from her skirt and pulled her slip over her head as the set warmed up.

Her bra and panties were plain white and serviceable, nothing frilly and fancy; she had never even worn the lacy sets that her husband had brought home that first year. They were still packed away in a trunk. Maybe his new wife or girlfriend wore such things.

She was reaching around behind her back and had just unhooked her bra when her eyes fell on the TV screen. Lauralee gasped, and her knees unhinged themselves in a total shock that dropped her back into the chair, the bra slipping from her nerveless hand.

What she was seeing was IMPOSSIBLE, but there it was, in flaming and outrageous color – the close-up of a man's thing working back and forth into a woman's organ!

Stunned, she stared in disbelief at the terrible picture, at the veined penis sliding greasily, powerfully into a hairy mound whose lips were puggy and inflamed, at the rhythm of the furry testicles that swung back and forth. Oh no, she though as her head whirled – oh no! It couldn't be; things like that were never shown on television.

It was horrible, and she felt the muscles of her stomach go tight, her thighs draw themselves together protectively. That penis looked so huge, and the woman's labia seemed to writhe. There was sound, too – that awful, wet noise of oily meat slipping into a soapy sheath, that damp slapping of the sack against the cleft of an uptilted pair of rolling buttocks.